Over the Watergate
by cougheebeans
Summary: Alchemy is an art. A lifestyle passed on by many generations. But not all canals flow the same. After you leave Beggar's Row and into the world over the watergate, what happens next? What happens when a lineage dies?
1. Welcome Home

It hadn't necessarily been too long. Winter, Spring, and Summer had passed; leaves had changed, snow had fallen, and flowers flourished just to wilt again, but not that much time had went by.  
He forgot just how softly the city slept at night. The faint sound of the lapping canal below danced along in the chilled air, swiftly passing around the flags that hung parallel of the wooden rooves across from one another. A heavy sadness lingered here. A weighty sense of imprisonment crushed against his chest just stepping through the gates. Teague couldn't believe his parents never decided to move. They were much older and set in their ways, yes, but Riften with it's musty smell and rise and fall of the Gutter Guild wasn't worth all of... _this_.

The city was falling apart. You'd think with someone like Maven Black-Briar running this show, the city would show signs of her greed. But maybe that was why the palace was thriving while more and more poverty and people filled the streets every day.

He silently trailed over the rickety bridge and through Dryside with his hands in his pockets, thanking the stars for being just the right amount of light to illuminate his way through the gloomy night. Passing so many of the homeless as they slept curled over the cold stone ground. Down the steps into the lowest level of the city, he quickened the pace and tried to keep his steps from reverberating off the moisture ridden stone.

Who knew who'd be desperate enough to strike him down here.

Stopping in front of the apothecary's shop, he sighed heavily to himself and reached deeper down into his pants. He brought the skeleton key to the locked keyhole, it once again being reunited with the patterned plates, snugly turning to the right, and clicking to alert access. A warmth washed over him as he stepped inside, Teague thankful the embers in the fireplace had not yet died. Shutting and locking the door behind him, he slipped off his boots and dropped his knapsack into the chair that was used to catch coats or other articles of clothing. He prayed no one had heard him just yet as he imagined the fright he'd give the person on the other side.

Elgrim and Hafjorg had tried for many years to have chilren. Being of respectful Imperial lineage, sterile women were frowned upon in Hafjorg's family. It was bad enough she had married a Nord, but a Nord alchemist, now that was a source of conversation. The couple had tried every elixir, every health potion, every illness resistant with no success of getting pregnant. It wasn't until the two made a promise in the name of love to the Aeadra, that whatever was to be done, that the Divines blessed them with a child.

Nine months later, a fifty-one year old Hafjorg gave a painful birth to a small and frail little boy. It took many conditioning ingredients to save the two of them, but the woman was able to look past the tears and into the blue eyes of the babe they prayed many years for. Yes, they had to face the judgemental glances and absurd comments in the beginning, but there wasn't a thing that could be done to strain their relationship with the divine intervention.

Except many things; one including the divine intervention leaving.

Now he stood still in his childhood home wondering if it was too late to turn around and leave before anyone caught wind of his return. Teague tried to swallow the guilt as it rose and bed back down in his body through waves. How could he have been so selfish? In a sense of panic and selfishness he leaves with only a note explaining his sudden outburst of seeking.

But seeking what?

"Did you ever find what you were looking for?" It was a soft question, but the sound of her voice piercing the long silence made him nearly jump out of his skin. His mother sat in her nightgown by the dying flame, her long gray hair draped over her shoulders. She shut the book slowly and set it down on the small table on her left.

Teague stood before her, Hafjorg's face frowning slightly as she looked up at her son. "I- Well... No. Not really," Teague managed. He shifted in the awkwardness. "Momma, I'm sorry."

She stood from her chair to embrace him. She had to of heard how hard his heart was beating as her head rested on his chest. When Hafjorg's eyes finally met his, she stroked his hair gently and left it to cup his cheek. Tears were filling her eyes but she didn't appear hurt or angry.

The look was too much, however, and he set his focus on his feet. "I should've come home sooner."

"That, or you could have at least sent letters."

"Teague paused for a moment. "I just wanted a change."

"I know, dear." She took his hand in hers and led him around the corner and down the hall. Past his parents bedroom and to the last door on the right. Opening it slowly to avoid the loud creak, she revealed the room had been kept just as he left it. The guilt sunk deeper. He tried to say something, but the words were trapped behind the lump in his throat. "You must be exhausted," she sighed, but mustered a smile, "we can certainly catch up in the morning."

He scratched his ebony hair roughly, annoyed with himself. He hadn't meant to panic and leave so soon after his father's death. It was something that took the both of them by surprise. And each day that passed in their small cobblestone hole of a home screamed his father's absence. Elgrim was a skilled trade Alchemist. He could sense the sickness of anyone that entered his store. What do you mean he wasn't aware of his own? It ate away at the old man. A once strong and broad Nord became a frail shell of what he used to be.

The rare sun beam of a new morning had peeped through the crack of the wall. The young man was the first to wake, anxious to set Elgrim outside to soak in the warmth. He went in to check on his father, as he did every ill-stricken morning, and that's how he found him. Eyes wide and mouth agape, like Death was as indeed terrifying as the books perceived.

It was too much for Teague. He still saw his father's face every night when he closed his eyes...

Teague nodded the thoughts away and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll see you in the morning."


	2. A Stranger

Warmth began to press down over Teague's chest, pulling him slowly out of his deep sleep. His eyes felt heavy and were foggy at first as he tried to focus on what was around him. Gwen stared back, her yellow orbs squinting in contentment.

"You silly kitty." Teague smiled, scratching behind her ear and earning a pleased purr. "I missed you too."

After she had fulfilled her need for attention, Gwen gracefully lept from his bed. The door of his bedroom squeaking slightly as she nudged her way back out. He sat upright, the bones creaking to satisfy his weary body as he moved and stretched from side to side.

The silence was eerie. Every morning of his youth started with being awakened by a low, working man's hum and the grinding from his mortar and pestle. Potions, pastes, elixirs and more; created by hands that rose early and fell late. Elgrim lived to help others. He was stubborn. He may have come off brash to some who didn't know the Elder Nord, but he'd give anyone the very shirt off his back if the need arose.

Teague winced as the musty scent of moss and rain seeped through the hopper window. He had been standing in this very spot the same afternoon Hafjorg came home from Ivarstead.

He could tell that her tone was quite grievous and hushed, but she calmly told Elgrim about the lady from the inn. The beggar was born and raised in the streets; left broken and mangled by someone who had taken advantage of her vulnerability. The innkeeper was going to make her leave, even in her condition.

Hafjorg seemed plagued with her son's sudden presence. Like he wasn't supposed to hear of life's cruelty or it was to be shunned until adult conversations could go uncensored.

 _"Dear, why don't you go back to your room for awhile. Until we finish talking?"_

He could recall the creases of worry scrunch over his father's forehead. Brows furrowing in understanding and patience, he lifted a hand to stop her.

Rubbing his temple lightly, and with a deep sigh, Elgrim instructed his son to retrieve an imp stool from the cooling barrel outside. Teague picked the finest one he could in his panic. Once he returned, Elgrim began churning and probing the fungus carefully into the wheat.

The same earthy smell that haunted Teague's nostrils today. Even as an inept boy he could tell that by it's fragrance it was missing something. His father's ocean eyes crashed into his, both calming and lulling.

 _"I need a butterfly, my boy. Can you find me one?"_

Most Nord men would scoff at the thought of their sons chasing butterflies. But some would suggest Nordic Alchemists were a kind of their own.

Teague pushed his thoughts back deep within his mind. Memories never came to him as frequent when he was out there. Now it was like the grief lived in this home, and coming to terms with everything all over again was what filled his father's void.

The layout was lit with a fresh fire than from last night. His mother sat on one of the stools behind the counter writing something in the shop's ledger of sales. Hafjorg's quill moved swiftly in hand, as a few fingers on the other rose up and down while she counted.

"We had customers already?" Teague questioned puzzled. It had to of been a little past eight. Hardly anyone stopped by anymore as it was, let alone before business hours.

"Just one," she said without looking up. "Got much more than any normal just-stopping-by traveler too." She had a cup of tea waiting for him. As always.

"Whad'ya mean?" He took the mug up in both hands as he sat down to peer over her shoulder.

i. 6 Fire Salts - 50 septims each

ii. 12 Wheat bunches - 5 septims each

iii. 5 Slaughterfish Scales - 3 septims each

iv. 30 Deathbell - 5 septims each

His curiousity was already getting the best of him. Who goes out of their way, in such an indiscreet manner, for the main ingredients in poisons?

As uneasy as it made him feel, he tried brushing it aside. "What did this bloke look like?" He scoffed, taking a deep swig. "Did he look as creepy as his shopping list?"

"If you consider 'creepy' a pretty little elf, then sure." Hafjorg dismissed, continuing to finish up the rest of their sales so she didn't miss any. "Well, if you want to call her that. Definitely Elven blood in her." Sighing she put the pen down and faced him. "She took her sweet time, regardless. Almost as if she was trying to buy time. Seemed a little too nervous if you ask me."

Now his curiosity was fully piqued and his head began to drown in uncertainty. Without much thought, in an almost unconscious way, he went to the front door and retrieved his coat. He ignored his mother's rambling as he practically sprinted his way off the docks and up the stairs.

Taking a slow pan of the marketplace, he searched for the familiar sounding stranger. Many faces and eyes met his. Some even excited as they recognized the Prodigal Son and exchanged words that they were happy to see he was finally home.

It was very hard to focus, however, for he did not come for idle chat. As he made one last scan of the crowd before deciding to head back, that's when he saw her.

The woman gazed back at him almost with hilarity swirling around in her almond-shaped eyes. The green in them blazed with the fire of the Forge she stood by, keeping her focus on Teague while she finished business with the blacksmith. Teague felt irritation flush the back of his neck. He hadn't really thought of what to say to her once, or if, she was to "happen upon" him again. But now that she was here in his birth-town, it felt more personal than he cared for.

Life outside of Riften needed to stay there.

Beilmund and the woman nodded their goodbyes and she made her way over to the bench he now sat on. Hunched over to where his elbows rested on his knees and clasped hands supported his chin. It gave him no time to adjust the rigidity in his shoulders.

"My favorite deserter," she sighed, tugging her knapsack off from around her bodice. She outstretched a hand, waiting.

Teague could only blink at the blow, arms crossing at his chest. "Why can't you just let me be, huh?"

A smirk flashed across her face, as it always did when she tried to find her way out of something. "I don't know what you-"

"Arena, this is my personal life." He motioned around him. "This is _my_ home. You went too far this time."

The smirk remained but a certain fear crept into her once playful demeanor. Or maybe it was sadness. The elf talked little of her life or who she was. Everything about Arena was private. Or a secret. She had seemed so offended by Teague even questioning if she was Mer or Man.

 _Both._ She replied quietly.

Though her ears were clearly that of a Mer, everything else was a mystery. Her eyes were shaped like an elf's, but having a white sclera, whereas most elves had darker shades to match their irises. Her skin was much paler than a Dunmer's, but the pigment showed where the sun kissed the top of her nose and cheeks.

Dark like ash.

But it felt as though she took each question as either a jab or pry. So he stopped asking.

Flicking one of her long chestnut piece braids over her shoulder, she fidgeted under his glare. "This was home for me too. Once. I never told you that but," Even seated Teague was still intimidating. "That doesn't matter now."

It took her time to find the words. Chewing on her lip she focused on his feet. "We have an investor, Teague. A real high roller."

Suddenly he was to his feet. His hand clasped her shoulder so fast, the swiftness of it all nearly knocked her back. Pulling her closer so she could hear under his hushed tone, and guiding her out of earshot, they made their way to the temple.

Teague wasn't necessarily a horrible person but he was no saint. Being on Mara's sacred grounds felt wrong, especially to talk about matters such as this. He nervously searched for a bystander that had witnessed the whole secrete exchange and less discrete exit. No one in the gardens today.

Teague sighed and released his grip. "I haven't said a thing about what we were wanting to do," he narrowed his eyes at her. Knitted brows asked the question for him.

Arena leaned back into the strip of latticework with the vibrant green ivy. "I didn't say a thing. I was too busy looking for you to ever mention it." She seemed quite pleased with herself but shook her head. "You've got to really think on this one, T-man. Who's the only one who sees and hears all before it happens?"

A small, blue butterfly danced in the distance between them. They both watched in silence as it swirled back and forth from it's floral contenders. It decided on the Nightshade, wings fluttering softly to keep it's balance.

"Shit."


End file.
